


Inceptionversary Prompt Fills

by aimlesstravels



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Badasses being cute, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Puppies, Sappy Ending, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:16:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2155323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimlesstravels/pseuds/aimlesstravels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another collection of <i>Inception</i> short prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inceptionversary Prompt Fills

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celestineangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestineangel/gifts).



> This is a companion piece to celestineangel's fic of the same name. 
> 
> Four years ago, we did indeed meet and become friends through _Inception_ and its fandom, and the entire experience was incredibly enriching. Many fics were written, much fun was had by all, and it was a bit of a wild ride, over at LJ. To celebrate and commemorate the event, we prompted each other to write 500 word ficlets, and here are the humble results.

**I. Eames discovers Arthur’s collection of priceless antique dolls**

Eames is pretty sure he’s not dreaming, but this seems to be the stuff of nightmares, or at least those irrational night terrors that plague the young. Or anyone else who fears glassy, dead eyes and eerie painted-on smiles.

He stares at the antique porcelain dolls, sitting neatly upon the dusty wooden bookshelf, row upon row. There must be at least fifty, sitting there with their fake hair arranged in limp ringlets and fluffy pinafore skirts.

“Boo.”

The word is a deadpan whisper in his ear, not a shout, but Eames yelps anyway, whirling around and swinging out with his fist. Arthur dodges the right hook neatly, raising an eyebrow and giving him a singularly unimpressed look. Eames knows him well enough, though, to know that Arthur can be a proper little shit when he wants to be, and glares.

“Are you purposefully trying to take ten years off my life?” He complains. Two can play the game, though, and Eames smirks, waving a hand at the dolls. “Ah, but you were always surprising, Arthur. I had no idea you had an inordinate fondness for such playthings.”

“Maybe,” Arthur says drily, “you just don’t know me very well at all, Mr. Eames.”

And well, that’s unfair, really, and Eames protests. Arthur merely pokes him in the ribs, right in that one ticklish spot that he always manages to find, and reaches down to pick up the grenade launcher that Eames was supposed to be retrieving from the safehouse attic. Before he got distracted by the startling among of rubbish piled up everywhere else – broken accordions, birdcages, torn parasols, and other junked items.

“Come on, Eames,” Arthur calls over his shoulder, and Eames casts one last suspicious look at the dolls. They smile blankly back at him.

 

* * *

 

Arthur lets him stew for two weeks. Because he is a cruel man who likes to play mind games, and who secretly giggles behind his hands when reveling in Eames’s confusion. It’s long enough, after all, that Eames has thought of purchasing an antique doll and presenting it to him, just to see his reaction.

But before he can do the deed, Arthur solves the issue for him.

“Widow in Bavaria. Cut out of the husband’s will; abandoned by her children. She was a collector, and could only pay in compensation.” Arthur chopsticks a mouthful of slippery noodles into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and turned another page in the newspaper. “Harper got a set of hand-carved Matryoshka dolls. Siderov got a set of really fucking creepy baby dolls. The client assured us they were valuable.”

Eames waits, patiently, as Arthur eats several pieces of tofu, before prompting, “Well?”

Dark eyes flick to him. “Well, what?”

“Are they? Valuable?”

Arthur shrugs, and snags a noodle before it slips out of the takeout carton. “Dunno.”

Eames hides a smile. Leave it to Arthur to take a job pro bono. “Why Arthur,” he drawled, leaning forward to steal some Pad Thai. “You are a soft touch.” That earns him a smack to the back of his hand, and he hisses.

“Keep on inching that fork toward my food and we’ll see just how soft of a touch I’ve got.”

“There, there now.” Eames goes back to his own fried rice with a frown. “You’re still scary. Especially with your dolls.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, and tips the takeout carton at him. “Shut up, Eames.”

“All right.” Eames says cheerfully, and takes a celebratory forkful of noodles.

 

**II. Eames challenges himself to NaNoWriMo**

He needs a hobby.

Well, he has lots of hobbies. Some of them are even legal. But since he’s been laid up in hospital with quite a few extensive injuries, he has very little to do save sit on his arse while the bones in his legs somehow knit themselves back together and his stomach heals from two holes that definitely should not be there.

And given the utter lack of any amusement save for trashy TV and nurses who only stay as long as it takes to check his IV and change the bandages, Eames is, to be frank, bored.

So. Hobby.

His hands escaped from the incident relatively unscathed, and thank goodness for that, too. Out of all the bones that he’s broken before, Eames thinks that smashed fingers are the absolute worst; zero out of ten, would not recommend.

He could knit. Make a nice cozy scarf with F U C K Y O U stitched neatly across the length of it, and send it by post to Isher, the traitor. But then again, knitting requires both needles and yarn, neither of which he is currently in possession of. He is, at the current moment, in possession of very little – they thankfully took out the pieces of lead in his gut, but they also took his pants, and his dignity. Eames can still feel the catheter, no matter how much morphine they’ve pumped into his system.

(There’s a large bouquet of sunflowers sitting on the table next to the bed, bright and yellow in the otherwise Spartan room, with its beeping machines and pale mint green walls and very bored inhabitant. There was also a card that came with it, just one of those tiny pocket-sized pieces of cardstock, folded once and stuffed into the envelope with a poker chip.

YOU ASSHOLE, it had read, and Eames had laughed, even though it hurt.)

He’s never considered himself much of a writer, but Eames can spin a good yarn when needed. He contemplates the ceiling tiles for the hundredth time, wonders how long before his grumpy darling comes to break him out. A glance at the calendar hanging on the wall tells him that it is the very first of November, after all. He’s already been here for ten days.

Damn. If only Arthur had the foresight to send him a laptop.

Ah, well. No one’s perfect.

Eames tilts his head back against the thin pillow, breathes in the mingled hospital odors of antiseptic and bleach and death, and hums to himself. Once upon a time, he thinks. There was a very charming, gallant, handsome thief…

 

**III. Arthur brings Eames home a gift**

When Eames wakes up, he notices several things: one, he aches, with the heavy, dragging soreness that meant he’s broken something. Perhaps several somethings. Two, he’s lying flat on his back, and the pattern on the ceiling hurts his eyes. Three, there is someone sitting beside him.

Slowly, Eames turns his head, and stares.

Arthur. Of course. It’s always Arthur. And secretly, Eames hopes that it always will be.

He looks – well, he looks lovely. Arthur always looks lovely, this is something that Eames will uphold, no matter if Arthur is wearing Dior or nothing at all. Both are fantastic, in his opinion. But right now, Arthur looks tired, in a pair of loose jeans and an oversized sweater, his hair falling into his face. He’s scowling, poking at his smartphone, and has an unlit cigarette tucked behind one ear.

Eames realizes with a start that Arthur’s wearing his clothes, and it makes something warm settle, and then expand in his chest.

“That’s mine,” he slurs.

Arthur blinks; his gaze shifts to settle on Eames. Relief smooths out his brow before the scowl returns, full force. “Shut up,” he snaps. “Just shut the fuck up.” He grits his teeth, looks away, and stands up, shoving the phone into his pocket. “Jesus Christ, Eames.”

“Sorry,” Eames offers, although he’s not sure why he’s apologizing. It’s the polite thing to do, though, and always seems to soothe ruffled feathers. Which Eames knows he’s good at. Therefore: apology.

“Yeah, you better be.”

“Why?” Soothing Arthur’s feathers requires a little more delicacy. Eames knows this, too. From experience. Sometimes, though, he puffs up like a little wet chick, unable to be placated. So many feathers.

It’s right about then that Eames realizes he’s been speaking aloud.

Arthur looks at him, then, helpless affection and annoyance mingled in his expression, now. “I hate you,” he sighs, shoulders slumping. Eames felt a rush of genuine dismay at that.

“Sorry,” he offers again, quieter.

Fishing into the pocket of his pants, Arthur pulls out a small black box tied neatly with a red bow, and Eames’s heart sinks. Oh. Oh.

“Happy Anniversary,” Arthur says softly, and puts the box in Eames’s lap. He stands, turns, and leaves the room.

 

**IV. Eames brings Arthur home a gift**

Arthur stares at it.

It’s a square package, roughly about the size of a medium flat-rate priority postage box, wrapped in understated but neat butcher paper, all corners creased and not a spot of crooked lines or overlapping paper. There’s a length of twine tied around the box in a bow as well, and it’s overall a very tasteful-looking package.

And since it hasn’t yet blown up, Arthur regards it with the utmost suspicion.

He’s not expecting anything. It’s not his birthday, although it’s been more than a decade since he’s anticipated anything for such an occasion. Arthur runs through his mental list of associates, acquaintances, and assholes who wouldn’t mind seeing him blown halfway to hell and back.

He comes up empty.

Still keeping both eyes on the package, he sets down his briefcase, and his trenchcoat. From a concealed pocket at his hip, he pulls out a butterfly knife, and approaches the table. With his other hand, he takes out his phone, punches in speed dial one, and waits.

One ring, two, and then a third. Then, the moment the other end of the line picks up, Arthur speaks without waiting for so much as a greeting.

“We’ve been made,” he says curtly. “Anomaly appeared in the dining room. Package, of unknown origin. I’ll disarm and disassemble what’s necessary and bring our to-go bags; rendezvous at –”

He’s cut off by the sound of Eames’s low amused chuckle, and Arthur frowns.

“Does the thought of someone breaking into our – ” Our home, he almost says, but corrects himself at the last moment. “Our place and dropping a potentially dangerous parcel amuse you?”

This is what they get for settling, for putting down roots. For sticking around long enough to get to know their neighbors – the single mother next door whose asshole ex Eames ran off, the little old lady who lives down the street and sends over Snickerdoodle cookies because she thinks Arthur’s too thin, the couple across the street who rescues and fosters pit bulls. Long enough to be greeted by name by the cashier at the corner bodega, long enough to have gotten sloppy.

“Arthur,” Eames says. He rolls the r in Arthur’s name, like he does whenever he’s trying not to laugh. “Put away the explosives and whatever dangerous weapon you’re wielding.”

Arthur frowns. “It’s just a knife.” He gets close enough to poke at the package with the very tip of the blade.

“Put it away, darling, and open the package. It’s for you.”

“For me.” Arthur’s frown deepens. “Why?”

“Why not?”

“Eames.”

There’s a sigh. “Because I wanted to give you a gift,” Eames explains, his voice soft, like whenever he thinks the people Arthur has known haven’t ever treated him well or given him enough. Usually that tone sets Arthur’s teeth on edge, because he has been taking care of himself for years, thank you, and he’s made his peace with his ghosts of the past. There’s no use pissing on the bones of the dead.

This time, though, Arthur wracks his brain. He doesn’t have an eidetic memory, but he likes to think that he remembers everything relevant to his interests and his needs. And Eames has always been relevant. “Did I forget something?” His voice comes out quiet. Hesitant.

“No.” Eames’s voice is warm. “Sit down and open it. It’s for you,” he repeats. “I’ll be home at half-six. Ta.” Then, silence signaling the end of the call.

They never say goodbye. It’s just not their thing.

Arthur puts the phone back in his pocket, regarding the package once more. He sets the knife down on the table top, and then sits down. Then, his lips curve involuntarily, and he pulls at the end of the twine.

 

**V. Prompted by Tom Hardy's Kleenex commercial. Yes, we all[know the one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uk-t-zKpJqs)**

Arthur hears a sniff.

He shifts the ruler one centimeter to the right, draws another line, and then puts the pencil between his teeth, frowning as he concentrates. Paradoxes are all well and fine in the dreamscape, but in the real world, rules like gravity still apply, and no, the building cannot curve in that direction and still stand.

Another sniff.

Arthur puts the pencil down, takes a sip of his coffee, long gone cold, but bitter enough to jolt his system awake. Eames has some movie on in the background, and he can also hear Harly’s panting as she begs shamelessly for more belly rubs. Arthur swears that Eames spoils the dog rotten, and Eames just grins and tells Arthur that he’s still the favorite.

Which usually ends with Arthur throwing the nearest object within reach at Eames’s head, and Harly thinking that they’re starting a game of fetch.

Having a bulldog means that there’s constantly some kind of noise to be heard: snorting, panting, snoring, farting – in the most ladylike doggy manner, Eames has assured Harly, when she gets scared of the sound of her own farts, which Arthur simultaneously finds hilarious and adorable – and he’s has gotten used to a low-level kind of canine-related ambient noise in the background.

He’s never really focused on the exact nature of the sounds that Harly makes, unless she’s making that rumbly, upset-tummy sound and then retching all over the priceless Persian carpet. So it takes Arthur several minutes before he realizes that sniffing is not a noise that a bulldog makes. At least not the kind he’s hearing.

He looks up and over at the couch, where Eames has Harly in a cuddle grip for the ages, and is staring at the TV screen. From this angle, Arthur can only see the back of Eames’s head, and Harly’s little squashed face tilting up, tongue lolling out, and what looks like…ugh. Some Hallmark or Lifetime movie playing out across the screen in all its sappy glory.

And Eames sniffs.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Arthur asks, because god fucking damn it, this is ridiculous. He kind of wants to go over and punch Eames in the arm, and then kiss his cheek. “Are you crying?”

“No.” Eames cuddles Harly closer, and sniffs once more. He reaches for the Kleenex. “That would be absurd.”

“You are.” Arthur stands. “You’re crying over a Lifetime movie.”

“It’s very touching,” Eames tells him, and he’s doing that pouty scowl now, glancing over his shoulder.

Arthur can’t help but roll his eyes and smile. “You’re an idiot,” he tells the man he loves, thinking, that yes, this is where he has chosen to place his affections. “Harly.”

The bulldog looks at him and wags her stumpy little tail.

“Tell him he’s a sap.”

Eames sniffs once more, before crumpling up the tissue and throwing it at Arthur’s head. With a bark, Harly launches herself off the couch, does a belly flop onto the floor, and races after it.


End file.
